


Lemon Soap

by RagtimeSpecter



Category: The Exorcist (1973), The Exorcist - William Peter Blatty
Genre: Bathtubs, Cuddling, Fahrenheit 451, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, In which Damien is overworked and Joe is a good boyfriend, I’ve never watched the exorcist this is a gift I’m sorry, Joe makes soup, Just a good time except for when Damien doesn’t take care of himself, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship, Priests, Probably ooc, There’s no sex but Joe is real flirty, angst? kinda?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RagtimeSpecter/pseuds/RagtimeSpecter
Summary: "You never get tired of trying, do you, Dyer?" Joe popped off of the cola bottle and shook his head."I'm a priest, it's what we do. God hasn't let you go yet, buddy." Damien smiled at that. He leaned against the wall, and Dyer did the same."He just might if I don't get ready for work tomorrow." Joe sighed, and Damien squinted at him. "What?""Just...you and your work. Do you ever take a break?"
Relationships: Joseph Dyer/Damien Karras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Lemon Soap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charlesleeray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesleeray/gifts).



> What if I wrote an Exorcist fic despite not knowing anything about the series? Haha JK, JK...unless?
> 
> Sorry if this is out of character, I tried though. This is a gift for damienkarras, ily Dims! :)
> 
> Also warnings: Food, swearing, suggestive content, Catholicism, Damien’s stressed and not taking care of himself. I think that’s it. Enjoy! :)

"Another one down, huh?"

Damien's heavy hands stopped halfway down the track of dark cassock buttons. "I guess." Five, six, seven. "It could've been worse." Eight, nine, ten.

"...That bad, huh?" The black cloak was hanging like a thief from their rack. He paused, then nodded. Their scuffed carpet suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room, with its whitish tufts shining gold under their faint lamp. A muffled pat was the only thing that could draw his eyes away from it, though never up to Joe's face.

"C'mere, Dims." He tapped the bed's frayed edge and stood up, cracking his back under the garish flannel he had on (Dyer, Damien thought, you're a character for sure). "I'll go get us something to drink."

"I'm fine, Dyer," Damien said. Even he felt himself cringe at the yawning falter in his tone. Joe looked at him, eyes roaming from his tousled hair to his muddied shoes.

•••

"Any preference?" 

"Surprise me." Joe shrugged and popped a small bottle open with his teeth, streaming its dark contents into a sweating glass. Damien accepted the cup and brought it to his lips, then immediately pulled it down to stare at Dyer's impish grin.

"Coca cola?" He asked, incredulously.

Joe sat back down next to him, bottle still in his grasp. "You asked for a surprise. Now," he scooted closer to Damien, until their hips were touching, "talk to me, Dims."

"Hi."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Hey." They landed back on Damien's. Sometimes, it felt a bit painful to look at Joe. It was like looking in a mirror; a lighter, happier mirror. Other times, it was finding the missing puzzle piece that he vowed to never lose again. The person who fit in with the rest of him, and made him complete, even if he wasn't the whole of him. 

"You never get tired of trying, do you, Dyer?" Joe popped off of the cola bottle and shook his head. 

"I'm a priest, it's what we do. God hasn't let you go yet, buddy." Damien smiled at that. He leaned against the wall, and Dyer did the same. 

"He just might if I don't get ready for work tomorrow." Joe sighed, and Damien squinted at him. "What?"

"Just...you and your work. Do you ever take a break?" 

"Every Saturday, I'll have you know,"

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

Silence fell over the room like a blanket. It swaddled Damien and made him sweat. "Is..." he cleared his throat, watching the decrepit popcorn ceiling spin above him, "Is it really?"

"You're overworked, aren't you?" Damien's stare jumped back to the scratched wallpaper. He felt his heart begin to kick against his eardrum while Dyer stared at him. "Bingo, Karras. I got it, huh?"

Damien didn't say a word. 

"It's eating at you, Damien." Joe moves closer, so much so that Damien felt his breath against his ear. "It's been eating at you. It's every few months— you work, you crash, you burn. I know you're a nobleman. Working yourself into a hole, though—"

"Dyer—”

"Damien." Joe's hand on his shoulder was enough to shut his mouth. He looked up, into Joe's worried face, and huffed. The warmth, the hold of his soft palm and his agile fingers, made his heart trickle back into a regular patter.

"You look sick.” Damien jolted up when he felt Dyer’s fingers burn against his cold face, running down to his chin to tilt his head up. He grimaced and shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips like a breeze in the night. “Pale and hot and hollow. Look at yourself.” 

As soon as Damien opened his mouth, it fell closed. His jaw locked when his sight landed on his reflection in the soda. The longer it stayed there, the more he felt Dyer’s words weigh on him in their truth. His hair looked almost wet and stuck out at odd angles. The curve of his cheekbones was pronounced more now than even last week. Both his lips and hands were dry to cracking. His eyes looked dead and jaundiced. He became acutely aware of how rigid and sore his legs and arms felt around him, and how empty he felt. It almost felt like he was possessed, watching his body move around him but never feeling or commanding it. Maybe he needed an exorcism himself.

“You need a break.” Damien focused on the clink of his glass against the bed table. His folded hands rested between his legs. The longer Dyer touched him, the more alive he became. He felt his clothes rubbing against his skin again, smelled the booze and sweat on his shirt, took notice of the water lurching through pipes above them and the clock breathing in ticks beside him. 

He looked back at Joe, and saw him blink a few times. Finally, his hands both came down and wrapped around Damien’s. Though they could’ve easily drowned in his fingers, they were comfortingly solid, and made Damien feel like he was floating. 

Joe turned up a bit. Damien didn’t know when their knees had started touching, or when their breaths started to mix, but he knew Joe was closer now than he’d ever felt him. He then opened his mouth again, and said with a voice softer than silk, “Let me care for you, Damien. Just this once. Just tonight. Take a rest.”

Damien couldn’t make it past, “Okay.”

•••

“A bath?”

Joe whistled as he dialed back the faucets and clapped his hand, face bright as ever. He looked ready to tip over the porcelain lip and fall back into the water himself. “Tell me you don’t like a good bath when you’re stressed. You also smell like death.”

“Thanks,” Damien said, trying to hold back his grin. He cracked his knuckles, leaning against the counter and tapping his sock against the off white tile. It was almost as cold as the air biting at Damien’s face. The bath suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Joe smiled. The skin beside his eyes creased and a tiny laugh slipped through his teeth. It was enough to warm the heart of even the coldest man, and certainly enough to make Damien return the gesture the best he could.

“Alrighty, you get undressed, I’ll get some soup on the stove. Gonna be cold tonight, rain coming in from the mountains,” Joe chirped. 

Damien cocked his head to the side, already shrugging his shirt off. “You’re not gonna stay?”

“I mean, if you’re offering, father, I’d love to see you dressed down a little,” Joe chuckled. “Nah, but really, I gotta get this soup on. Gimme a moment.”

Damien felt his face burn red, but laughed nonetheless as his belt came undone and Joe waltzed off to grab a pot.

•••

Damien hardly remembered the last time someone had hugged him, but he imagined it was something like this. The water gently rocked around him, caressing his skin while the bubbles formed a veil between his body and the artificial bathroom light. It felt like it had been hours since Dyer had left, and longer that he’d been thinking about him. When he stared up, the shadows of the plaster and the patterns pressing through the curtain started to swirl and latch together, forming joy-strained features and familiar brown hair. 

He wondered what women thought of Joe. He was notorious for not settling, rather walking his dates in arcs and letting them off at the easier end. But the tender moments they spent together before they hit the opening couldn’t have been nothing, if people still saw and admired him so. It wasn’t hard to imagine him as a romantic— a poet, a minister, a sightseer, a caretaker. Maybe he prepared them dinner, or calmed them down in worse moods. It wouldn’t have been hard. He was insightful, patient, loving. The way he joked and jested made him a heavy branch to pick pleasant company from. Pleasant, gorgeous, close company. 

Is what he would’ve thought, hypothetically, of course.

“Soup’s on a roll. Hope you like chicken noodle.” Damien watched the door creak open as Joe bustled in, setting his apron down and catching his breath while his back cracked. He opened one eye and grinned. “Damn. Aren’t you a sight.”

“For sore eyes, I’m sure,” Damien tittered. He glanced back over and watched Joe come to kneel next to him, a cup in hand. 

“Like seeing me on my knees, Karras?” Damien flustered and looked down, trying to ignore Joe’s smug expression. He scooped up some of the water in the cup and tilted Damien’s head back, ruffling his hair. “Stay still for a second, alright?” He said, pausing for Damien to hum back at him. Once he heard it, he slowly tipped it out over him. Damien didn’t move a muscle, already relaxed in the basin. The bath water was just above tepid, refreshingly cool as it dropped down the back of his neck. Joe set the cup down on the tile. “Good boy.”

“I don’t have any soap with me, you know,” Damien interjected, watching Dyer stand up to rifle through his medicine cabinet. 

“I know well. That’s why you’re using mine,” Joe replied. He sat back down with a plastic bottle, and tipped the viscous liquid inside into the palm of his hand. “I hope you like lemon.”

“Lemon’s fine.” Damien watched him rub his hands together through the corner of his eye, then turned forwards again. Even from here, Damien caught wind of the delightful sour scent of the soap. 

“Your hair is getting awful long,” Joe commented as he began massaging the shampoo into his hair. The feeling of his fingers rubbing soft circles against Damien’s scalp was heavenly. He continued wittily, “Going for the Jesus look?”

“Oh, surely. Maybe I’ll sacrifice myself to atone for some sins, too, if the night’s still young enough.” Joe laughed, still carding his fingers through Damien’s hair and working the suds between the different parts of his cut. 

“You can start with me, father.” Damien couldn’t help but tense up at Joe’s low tone. One of his hands was buried deep in his hair, occasionally scratching at the roots of his hair and guiding him back. He couldn’t look back, but didn’t miss when Joe continued. “You make me feel awful sinful.”

Joe paused, then snorted. “I’m fucking with you. Alright, close your eyes, I’ll rinse this out and leave so you can finish up.” 

“Ha, ha,” Damien said sarcastically, trying not to sigh too loudly. “Good one, Dyer.” 

•••

Joe was already on the bed with their bowls by the time Damien was dressed and out of the bathroom. The smell of hot chicken stock and steamed vegetables was rich in their room. Damien looked between Joe, the mumbling TV, and untouched bowl on the nightstand. 

“On the bed?” Damien asked, sitting down next to Joe in his boxers and white shirt. Joe shrugged.

“It’s comfortable, just don’t spill it. Your bowl’s on the table.” Joe yawned, setting down his own while Damien bent over to pick his dish up. While Joe lit a cigarette, Damien brought a spoonful to his mouth. A feeling of toasty homeliness spread throughout him while his mouth filled with a savory taste. He surveyed the bowl a bit with surprise, watching bits of tender chicken and carrots float with the spices and aromatics. Joe chuckled a bit. “Good?”

“Very. You’re almost better than my mother, Dyer,” Damien said kindly, trying to pace himself as he ate.

“Almost?” Joe said dramatically. “A whole stock of parsley, and I’m only in second place. You wound me, Dims.”

Damien snorted into his hand and elbowed him gently. “Right. Anything good on?”

“Fahrenheit 451. You like Bradbury?” Joe asked. Damien set down his bowl, nearly empty.

“The movie’s nothing like the book, honestly. Linda Montag, I can’t believe...” Joe couldn’t stifle his laughter at Damien’s critique. He blew smoke through his teeth and leaned back, to which Damien followed.

The faint brush of color moving on the screen was the only light in their otherwise dark room. Damien followed the movements of Captain Beatty as he rambled on and on at Montag at a volume he could hardly hear. He didn’t say anything though, instead enjoying the sound of the rain drizzling against the roof...and the warmth of Joe leaning against his side. His eyes looked heavy. Damien couldn’t blame him, not with the hands of the clock almost at their peaks and the boring droning of the actors. He felt exhaustion start to weigh on him as well, forcing a yawn out of his mouth. Joe leaned sideways and snuffed out his cigarette in their ash tray. 

“Wanna lay down?” He murmured, looking at Damien thoughtfully. Feeling his lucidity start to drain, he returned with a nod. They reclined against the pillow. Joe pulled up the blanket. His body was curled against Damien: one arm over his chest, one hand resting on his shoulder, hips and knees comfortably close.

“—There must be something in books, things we can’t imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don’t stay for nothing—”

Damien stared up at the ceiling. It was no cathedral. There was no need for prayer. There was just him, and Dyer, and them breathing and listening together. And the smell of lemon shampoo.

“Thanks,” Damien said. “For everything.”

Dyer was silent for a moment. Finally, after a beat, “Anytime, Dims.”

They were quiet for minutes, listening and touching and waiting. “Hey, Dims. I forgot to give you something before bed.”

Damien turned to the side and felt a hand brush his cheek. It cupped his jaw and rubbed behind his ear. The way it held him let him stare Joe in the eyes. It was dark on dark, tired on tired. Then, Damien blinked. That was all it took. Something hot, soft— alive, pressed against his lips. It was like Aphrodite himself was blessing him, holding him in a kiss for seconds that passed days at a time.

The hand and the heat left him. When his eyes opened up again, Joe’s face was pressed against his neck. His eyes were shut, but his lips were shiny and parted.

“G’night, Dims,” he mumbled. 

“—What is there about fire that’s so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it?”

Damien couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. His cheeks were flushed with something unfamiliar to him. It was recognizable though; it was feeling, plain and honest. And it lived in him strong. Life itself, love itself.

“It’s perpetual motion; the thing man wanted to invent but never did.”

“G’night,” Damien said, “Joey.”


End file.
